Jeff Epton's Outdoor Poetry Season

The edge of silence haunts me, listening here, where there is still song and rhythm and echoes and noise, sounding and resounding.   It woul...

The voice, her voice, repeating, I have to hang up. We’re about to take off. They want me to hang up. We’ll talk tomorrow. Okay?   I imagine...

In an epoch of nightmares, the walk to the lake, transformed by mood and by moment, planned as a journey with Jetta, to proceed from Caracol...

Isabel, hey, Isabel, I am Jeff.   Been that way for the longest time, but now, of a sudden, I am Isabel’s Jeff.   Not brand new, at all, but...

The reality of what once was competes with what now is at least in terms of how memory can be experienced by those who long for that with gr...

A covid poem Waking the days of the months lining our lives, counting rhythms of lungs and of heart, suddenly glimpsing the count gone awry,...

  I originally posted this poem, in July 2009 on my blog, In and Out with Jeff. At the time, I hadn’t yet set up Outdoor Poetry Season, my p...

This is the Jeff I am now. Not the Jeff I was at thirteen, nor the Jeff I was at thirty. They are the Jeff I am in the...

Naomi Shihab Nye chose  to highlight  this poem, Brute Strength, by Emily Skaja, in her weekly column in the New York Times Sunday Maga z...

You know the story, the one that ends with the hero face down in the mud. Or, maybe, the story that ends at the by-no-means guar...

Late-night honest with myself My boy shames me The courage he shows drumming at the Metro Spare change pours in Folded bills ...

I read all your poems, I hear all your voices. I hear the songs, the love, the yearning, the striving, the growing, the greenin...